


Lost in Nightmares

by TheLadyFrost



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Freeform, NO rape, Resident Evil 5, Shameless Smut, lost in nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13730388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: A girl. A villian. A chance encounter. A lifetime of chasing the wrong man...





	Lost in Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironbutterfly25](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironbutterfly25/gifts).



+Author's note:

This is a gift story (long over due) and written with love and dedication and a little bit of trying too hard. Haha. But it's all in good spirits. It's an AU idea of Jill and Wesker in the midst of 5 before the fall. It can potentially read a little OOC since it implies Jill is a little obsessed with her former Captain here. But Jill is a cool cucumber, character-wise, so we can never really know what she's thinking. I like giving her a little edge of bad. It works for me.

Lost in Nightmares

Spencer Estate – Somewhere in Baden Baden (The Black Forest) - Germany

The echo of thunder: It rumbled. It grumbled. It reverberated over a country side turned ripe with madness and rage.

Rage – hers.

Rage – his.

Rage – theirs.

It led them and brought them together. It was rage that bound them and blistered, raw and painful as if lent the sting and singe of fire gone wrong. Encircled by the heat, they faced each other in the turbulent strike of each poetic slash of lightning as it lit the sky and torn asunder the veil of their own regret. She wasn't a good girl when she was with him. She wasn't even Jill Valentine.

She was a bad girl…in the presence….of a bad man.

She stood amongst the shadows, beckoned to the piano that waited between them with unparalleled temptation. To move forward, she need only offer a song. To revert, she needs only let…the music stop. Her eyes glanced at him, reflected in the shiny mahogany of the piano top. Her eyes glanced at the piano, waiting so peacefully between them for her fingers.

Chris waited somewhere for her as well.

CHRIS - A GOOD MAN.

He was always waiting for her.

The man beyond the piano was waiting as well.

Waiting for her to speak first.

Jill did so now, with a trembling edge of pain. "The rumors said you'd died."

A brief smile on his mouth. His head tilted in the darkness so that the brilliant planes of those lenses reflected her harried face back at her.

"Did they? And yet here I am."

"Yeah, here you are. Why? What can Spencer tell you? I thought you were omniscient? The "god", the great Albert Wesker, the prodigal son…why are you here, Wesker?"

He circled left.

She circled right.

Amused, he studied her as she seemingly fled from him. It wasn't the first time she feigned fear of him. But they both knew where her truth lied. It lied with him…as she had…more than once before.

Was it that truth that haunted her now?

That she'd first touched him when they'd been imperiled together so long ago in Raccoon City? The regret of that encounter, heady and rough and damning, might have been forgiven he supposed as she hadn't known then that he was without a soul. But it wasn't the last time she'd let him touch her.

Again, she'd come to his hands in the cold dark of the Russian wasteland.

While her comrade in arms had struggled against the last of the tyrants, Jill Valentine had submitted to the hands of the best. He'd brought her intel to send them on as his envoys against Umbrella. She'd led Chris to the defeat of the company that had plagued him for so long….and taken him into her body as reluctantly as she'd taken his intel.

She always seemed to hesitate when she found him. The war of her need waged intently on her pleasingly simple face. Beautiful?

He studied her in the flickering lightning. She wasn't exactly beautiful. She was the girl next door simple. There was nothing stunning about Jill Valentine…save for the blue of her eyes.

They were nearly shocking in the low light, in the immersive spill of the moon. They were nearly fairytale blue. The blue of a winter sky. The blue of a husky. Blue like crystal untouched by mortal hands. Blue like the water of the ocean in Antarctica before the ice tumbles to make it churn.

Blue was the mildest of words.

Her eyes were the only thing about her that haunted him...besides the taste of her mouth.

He considered her now, this weakness he had for her that was entirely mortal. What was it about her that drew him?

Her reluctance, naturally, and the need to override it but what kept his interest?

Was it her connection to Redfield?

Wesker considered that possibility and discarded it. He'd never once thought of Chris Redfield with Jill in his arms. The other man was of little importance when it came to her. There was a simple matter of knowing something in her was untapped, untested, untried. Someone had been overlooking Jill Valentine all of her life.

There was a coolness in her that was reflected in the icy chill of her eyes. It was one that he identified with. It was kindred to him. It was a reflection of his own.

It was as if she were WAITING to be released from her own mortality.

Perhaps he was the answer to that need.

He shifted toward her again and she retreated, bumping against the piano in her escape.

What was the most fascinating thing of all?

She didn't even attempt to go for her gun.

He tilted his head at her, "I'm here for the truth, Jill. Aren't you? We covet the same thing, it would seem."

"What's that?"

"Answers."

That part was true, Jill mused, as she tried to circle again and found herself blocked by the bench and the wall. Trapped, breathing fast like an animal about to be eaten, feeling like prey and predator somehow at once…she waited for it.

He didn't disappoint her.

His gloved hand lifted and cupped her face, almost delicately.

Jill spoke softly, whispering, "Don't."

Didn't she always say that?

First in the mansion where he'd come to betray her. Then in the facility where she'd come to betray Redfield. And now in the estate where she'd come to atone for her betrayal.

And yet…yet….here they were.

And those eyes of her were full of panic. Why? She didn't fear him, surely, as if he'd ever really laid a hand on her in violence. Not once. Ever.

But that wasn't the fear on her now. It was fear of what she wanted. It was fear of how much she wanted…him.

The only fighting that would happen in this room would be Jill Valentine…against herself.

His touch was gentle as he tugged her face up to him and spoke so quietly against her trembling lips, "Stop chasing me, Jill. Do you think I will come quietly, as they say? Or perhaps you chase me because you wish to….come quietly."

Oh lord.

Her face flushed. The rage was there now, on her delicate skin. He liked it. As she lifted a hand to push against him, he pushed his mouth against hers and stole her breath.

Jill opened her mouth with a gasp and his tongue claimed it.

The eager push of her hands curled instead. They slid against his slick coat and caught, grabbing like claws in the heavy fabric. Her chin angled up for a deeper delve of him, her ball cap sliding loose from the dark fall of her hair to hit the floor beneath her.

The first touch of him had enthralled her. Her Captain – forbidden. Always a girl who'd followed the rules- suddenly a girl gone bad. Suddenly a girl in her bosses embrace. She'd blamed the adrenaline. The fear. The horrible truth of that night that had led them to one steamy embrace in that mansion where her world had fallen apart.

The more ugliness she'd uncovered, the more the world had torn until she'd found her Captain in the piano room. He'd comforted her. He'd offered her solace and hope. Her mind didn't know still how they'd come to couple so fast and hard on that piano. Her hands gripping the dusty ivory, his hands gripping her needy hips.

They'd come together sharply, desperately. Her little beret had come loose in his hands. He'd thrown her across the piano. She'd slid, smacking into the wall beyond it. The force of it had rung up her back into her belly and her breasts. 

Excitement - need - HUNGER.

He'd nearly broken her zipper getting her out of her pants. He didn't even take off her boots. He'd shoved them down to her ankles to bind her feet like some kind of filthy cuffs. He'd pushed her panties to the side to touch her. Crude, rough, he'd plowed into her body with those driving digits while she'd bucked and burst against him. Commanding, controlling, conquering - a man with a conquest. The conquest was her. Always.

She'd capitulated greedily. Needily. Lost. 

His uniform opposed her. His glasses annoyed her. She caught them in her hand to toss them away. The blue of his eyes enthralled, enchanted somehow. She wanted to SEE him take her. 

She gasped, dying, "Captain..."

And he'd let her drag him by his uniform top to her mouth. They'd blended lips, he'd rended cries from hers with his thrusting hand between her legs. She'd popped two buttons on his uniform digging for his chest.

Smooth. Her tongue on his collarbone. His on the lobe of her ear, suckling. The kiss now - slick and facile - fluid. Almost lazy. He didn't plunge, he plucked, tempting her lips with the gentility of it even as he fingered the throbbing core of her and tortured her to madness.

And she'd whispered, blind with it, "Please? Captain. Please."

He'd surged between her legs, pulling her to the edge of the piano. Panties to the side like some wanton thing. Heart hammering. Hands in his tresses to hold his mouth to hers while he freed himself. 

Power, she'd thought, he EXUDED it. It poured off him in waves. It tasted like copper and cum in her mouth while she swallowed his tongue and his spit and his breath.

Anchored, aching, he'd drug her to him while she'd spread her legs to take him. Her hands shifted and gripped his hips, jerking. He'd splayed a hand on her groin to hold her down and split her open.

Hard. Painful. Passionate. He'd led her to him like he led his men - full force, dedicated to her release as he was to his command. Jill'd nearly died trying to meet each inch of his desperate plowing. 

So fast. It was insane. It was the only thing in that night of horrors she'd been able to feel good about…at first. AT FIRST. He'd taken away the fear, for a handful of minutes, he'd given her passion and restored her hope. Before she'd known….the horror was all his fault.

Afterward, she'd known who he was. WHAT he was. She'd known.

When she'd coupled with him in Russia, in the cold, in the dark. SHE'D KNOWN.

He'd grabbed her and she'd fought. At first. She'd slapped him.

Twice.

Just twice.

And his laughter had spilled around them as they kissed – wet and furious.

In the snow. In the shadow of the building where he'd play them to his purpose. 

He'd put his mouth to her ear while she quivered, "Jill...will you fight me now? Is that really what you want?" 

He'd let go of her hands. The moonlight had made his hair silver. His eyes were no longer blue. Red. Purple in the dark. A monster.

She'd spilled open his coat and into his arms. Against the wall, grasping and grappling desperately to hold him. He'd spilled her into the building.

He'd spilled her across the floor. 

The clothes were lost to grabbing, to ripping, to the raping pull of her mouth all over him. A storm - she'd been a storm herself then. She'd thrown him to the floor to mount him like she'd take him into her and own him.

A crazy thing. A curious one. She'd been the woman sleeping with the enemy. She hadn't even been ashamed. Not then. Not while she rolled across the dirty floor with him. 

Her hands had bound his to his chest. She'd ridden him angrily, desperately, claiming the twitching length of him inside her. It was emotionless. It was a conquering. Hers. His. 

But it wasn't. Because he'd leaned up from the floor to kiss her. His mouth almost gentle. And she'd leaned down to blend with him there.

Wet, wild, they'd mated - more animal than man. More feral than feminine. She'd wrapped her legs and arms around him madly as he came above her and plunged between her thighs. Her body his temple, his cock there to worship her and bathe in the slippery greed of her release.

She'd come loudly, vocally, muscles bunching, thighs clenching; drenched in her release and his. His. Sticky and raw between her legs, dribbling down her thighs as he'd slid away. A brief touch, his hand between her legs, touching the wet of where he'd used her- possessive somehow and dirty. 

She'd shivered.

Wordless. Used. She'd laid on the floor and waited. He'd dropped an envelope on the counter of the bar where they'd coupled. 

The envelope with all they'd need to end Umbrella. His end game - played perfectly for him - as he'd played her in his hands.

She knew it was nothing more than conquest for him. She was a victory. The enemy that took him to bed with her. The enemy that spread her thighs for him. She was a joke to him. She had to be.

SHE WAS A JOKE TO HERSELF.

But no one was laughing.

She spilled him back on the bench now and settled on his lap.

She expected him to laugh as she straddled him.

But no one was laughing.

She was lost in the nightmare of knowing she was somehow obsessed with the man who was responsible for the horror of what her life had become. She had no hope now. She had no life. The promise of such a thing had died in Raccoon City when he'd betrayed them.

And yet…here she was with her legs spread atop the man who'd ruined her world.

It was so pathetic it was almost comic.

…but still no one was laughing.

His coat spilled around her stroking hands. His hands caught her face to guide it into the rhythm of each swift surge of his tongue. Her hands sifted in his shirt, their mouths broke apart, and she shoved him against the piano.

It jingled musically – off key and ugly – while the thunder rolled beyond the dirty windows.

And Jill spoke harshly, "No."

"No what, Jill? No…what?"

Shaking her head, she kissed him again. This time it was his muffled laugh she took with her questing mouth. No what? She couldn't even answer that. Who was she denying? Him?

Or herself?

Panting, gasping, she stopped groping him enough to lean back and grab his face in one angry hand. He waited, passive, almost amused. He watched her behind those absurd lenses. He looked…almost bored.

Annoyed, she jerked the glasses off and threw them.

Jesus.

It never failed to scare her to death.

His eyes were molten lava. They were red blood and sunrise. They were monster and madness and hours spent in the dark hungering like a pathetic thing for him.

She hated him. And herself. And this.

THIS.

She hated THIS.

Jill slapped his face.

It rang loud in the quiet room.

His mouth turned up into a devilish grin. Oh, he was so amused. Smug. She HATED him.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back to take his mouth. A good kiss, plunging, plundering. She was a hungry thing that demanded and conquered.

When they were both breathless, she threw her leg to the side and climbed off his lap. He waited, patiently watching her. His fingers of his left hand drummed happily atop the shiny piano, almost daring her.

Jill jerked her side arm free and cursed, "Get up."

Amused, Wesker watched her, "Or you'll shoot me?"

"Shut up. Get up, now."

With a laconic shrug of one shoulder, he rolled to his feet. The move was swift, inhumanly fast, and stole her breath with a beat of real fear.

He was suddenly behind her and she hadn't seen him move. His hand gripped hers and she made a sound of pain as the gun spilled from her tortured grip to the piano top. His body crushed hers against the piano, his mouth against the delicate shell of her ear. "Be careful who you attempt to command, Jill. Perhaps you have me confused with Redfield. I answer to no one. Especially you."

Jill hissed, almost spitting, "I'm taking you in. You're done running."

"Am I? Do I appear to be running? Am I done? Or are you?"

His hand jerked her face to the side for his mouth. She whined and surged toward him.

The sound of giving cloth had her pants spilling to the floor. Her body bowed back at the touch of him. She should resist. She should stop. But she didn't want to stop him. She didn't want to do anything but feel him.

She hated him. She hated herself…because she didn't hate him at all.

Gasping, freeing her mouth from his with a pop, she shook her head. Denying. Who? What? It didn't matter. She simply spread her legs as he shoved her harder against the piano and jerked her hips back toward him.

A good girl. Always. What was it about him that made her bad?

What was it about him that had her lost in the nightmare of her need for him?

Disgusting. She was disgusting.

She was a joke.

No one was laughing.

She gasped, loudly, "Do it! Now!"

The piano tinkled musically as he thrust himself inside of her. She was already wet and stretching. The walls of her body opened with each eager surge.

Her hands flattened on the piano top and splayed, squeaking as they were torn back and forth with each jerk of his hands on her hips to bring her back against the crush of him inside her. The angle was sharp, painful, ripping little keens of pain and pleasure from her mouth as he struck the end of her body and came back for more.

The surge of their bodies was as turbulent as the sky beyond the window. It was thunder and lightning and rage.

Rage –hers.

Rage – his.

Rage – theirs.

They came together with as much music as the piano beneath them offered. It was a symphony regret and pain and guilt. She turned her head for the taste of his mouth even as she hated herself for the pleasure that poured from her like the notes of a well-played song. She came around the thrusting, crushing, driving the length of him – jerking, jumping, as if she'd touched the lighting that snapped and crackled outside.

She screamed a little, crying for it, begging with it. She bucked, blistered by the fire of her own desire for him. She gritted her teeth, hissing, "Give it to me, you bastard...oh, god..."

And he laughed, thrilling her.

His hand pressed her down on the piano, flattened her there while he finished in her, rolling her hips up until her feet dangled and she was pinned, spitted like a moth – the fluttering of her wings signaling her defeat.

The dirty mirror across the way dangled crookedly on the wall behind the bar. It reflected her face back at her – eyes dilated, lips damp and swollen, skin flushed, hair mussed and brow sweaty…used.

She was used. Used by the enemy.

But she was more than that. She was a vessel for him. A glove. He grunted, ground himself there inside of her needy body while Jill made a struggling squeal of pain and need, and branded her with his release. He thrust hard into her twice and finished, spilling there while she twitched.

A good girl filled up by a bad man.

A good girl lost in the nightmare of her obsession with her enemy.

She lay placidly, shamefully, as he withdrew and left her leaking the possession of him from her throbbing body. Curious, she watched him in the mirror admire his work on her like some kind of perverse artist. And even that, raw and dirty, thrilled her in some wicked way.

She LIKED watching him look at her used body there on the piano.

Who was she!?

She breathed, "Don't you do it. Don't run, Wesker. I mean it."

"Shall we continue the game, Jill? You came easily, after all. Do you expect me to? There's so much more for you to learn it seems. Come and find me again. And pretend to be the hero the world thinks you are."

He leaned down beside her ear. He turned his head. Their faces were parallel in the mirror across the way. "I see the real you, Jill Valentine. I see inside of you. Keep lying to yourself. Keep lying to Redfield. Soon enough, you'll begin to see the truth you hide beneath the surface. Let the old Jill Valentine die…and rise again as you were meant to. And you will finally be free of your lies…and of me."

Wesker laughed now. He laughed. Even as he traced a finger over the wet, slick, dripping heat of her and turned away while she shivered. She shivered, struggling to rise, and sure enough…he was gone.

He left her used, ashamed, and aching in the room where she'd come to defeat him.

He left her…conquered.

She rose from the piano, trembling, even as the first tear leaked from her eye. Why cry? Why? Shame? Guilt?

She paused before pulling her pants up.

She should wipe the sticky wet of him from her before she finished dressing. She should wipe him away.

She didn't.

She pulled her pants up and left him on her…IN HER. And that was what the tear was. It was guilt, yes, because she didn't WANT to wipe him away. She wanted him there.

And hated herself for it.

Her eyes turned to the mirror above the piano. There was no hope for her now. None. She was going to carry the want of him around with her for the rest of her life.

She wasn't a good girl gone bad. She was a bad girl…pretending to be good. The dream of freedom from him was coupled with the dirty little nightmare that was her secret piece of wanting to have him. Like a pervert. Like a fool. Some part of her wanted to keep him like a plaything and not pay the price for it.

How did she atone for wanting him that way?

How did she atone for betraying everything they stood for?

How did she atone for being a good girl…lost in nightmares?

The lightning behind him. The body on the floor. The horror of the truth.

And Chris dangling from his hand like a puppet.

Chris.

How did she atone for what she was? For what she'd done?

She had to stop it. Had to stop him. Had to stop THEM BOTH.

A good girl…A GOOD GIRL.

She took him out the window while the lightning struck. While the sky rumbled. Why the world fractured.

Chris screaming. Rain streaming.

Rage – hers.

Rage – his.

Rage – theirs.

And redemption found in blood beneath the watchful face of the moon.

The world without pain. The world with hope again. The world right again with him destroyed…with her redeemed. Not a bad girl…not anymore…even as her hands curled into his shirt where they lay crumpled together in a broken mess. His glasses beside them…his glasses reflecting the shattered face of her betrayal…of his denial…of their deaths.

Atonement. That's what would make her a good girl again. She was still Jill Valentine.

She was still A GOOD GIRL.

A good girl...dying atop a bad man...trying to escape the nightmares...trying to atone for the BAD GIRL...for the lies...for the NEEDS.

Trying to be...good again...dying to stop the nightmares.

A good girl...dying to protect A GOOD MAN...to protect him from the NIGHTMARES...from the BAD MAN...

A good girl...dying in blood to be good again...to use the blood of the enemy to wash away her sins...to ease her nightmares...

A good girl finally escaping her nightmare...about to awaken in the worst one she'd ever known.


End file.
